


Labors of Love and Loss

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Horror, Horror, M/M, Multi, Taxidermy, general grossness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 10:29:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2188365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean always thought that beautiful things shouldn't be wasted and spoiled by death.  That was why he went into taxidermy in the first place.<br/>(This was uploaded before but it got deleted by accident so here it is again)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [This beautifully terrifying piece](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/69330) by carrionofmywaywardson. 



> Another warning that this is kind of really messed up so yeah, proceed with caution.

The thing is, people are real hypocrites when it comes to taxidermy. Oh, it's disgusting, preserving something with stitches and stuffing! It's barbaric! But taking comfort in burial or cremation was fine. Letting a body burn, or rot in the ground was more respectful somehow, than protecting it. So mourning is only acceptable when one doesn't get one's hands dirty.

This is one of the things Dean thought about when he was inclined to think philosophically, which wasn't often. The thought crept in accompanied by a disgruntled feeling whenever there was a slow day at the shop, when no one came in at all some days and there was nothing else to do but think.

It was on one such day that he was staring out the front window, his thoughts turning darker and darker the more he contemplated the stigma of his profession, that he first saw him: a lean, though athletic looking man, with messy, dark hair, in a sweater vest and slacks, exiting the shop opposite.

The place had been derelict for years. It might have been boutique once, or a cafe. Now though, though some renovation Dean hadn't bothered to keep track of, it had been transformed into a quaint little bakery. On the blue and white striped awning in front, a sign read 'Angel Food Cakes' in neat, curling letters.

It seemed, from the way he unlocked the door and stood in the doorway, admiring the place, that he was the owner. And he was perfect, even from behind.

He was better from the front, and Dean got that view when he doubled back to get a box from his car -a red VW beetle that looked almost as new as the bakery. Dean could have fallen out of his chair. The baker's face was perfect. Soft lips, a strong nose, and eyes like the sky distilled.

Shit! The man caught Dean looking, met his eye and... smiled. And blushed a little too. He waved a little wave that was more a fluttering of his long fingers, and went back to his boxes. Dean was still gawking at his back.

He resolved to talk to him.

"Hey!" Dean said, exiting the shop and gathering his strength. "Need some help with those boxes?"

The baker looked up. "Yes, please!" He said in a gruff voice. "Thank you so much!"

"No problem," said Dean, "slow day anyway."

"I'm sorry to hear that!" The baker handed him a box labeled bedroom and Dean swallowed hard.

"Nah, it's always like that, it's a hazard of the job I guess. Welcome to the neighborhood by the way, I'm Dean." He tried to look friendly.

"Thank you. I'm Castiel. This is a lovely neighborhood." He said, looking back at the sleepy shopping street as he led Dean through the door into the pristine bakery. "The apartment's upstairs. Sorry, they're a bit steep." He hefted his own box ahead of Dean and soon they were both standing in a pretty, though sparse living dining room kitchen that was already taking shape from the chaos of moving. The bedroom was off to the side, still bare. Dean laid his box down on the floor and for the first time stood uninhibited face to face with Castiel.

"So, uh, what brings you out to this speck on the map?" Dean asked.

Castiel smiled again, an expression that sat nervously on his mouth as if he was out of practice. "There's a certain charm here that we don't have out west." He said. "And what they say is true there really is no place like New England."

Dean felt like his skin was too tight, like he had been stuffed by an inexperienced taxidermist and the mold of his body was wrong. "Yeah it's nice."

"So you do taxidermy?" The baker asked, and the name of Dean's profession sounded so good on his tongue.

"Yeah. I promise I'm not a creep or anything." He said, abashed.

"Oh, I don't think taxidermy is creepy!" The other man protested. "It's lost some of its renown since the 19th century, but then so has the newspaper industry and no body calls them creepy."

They both laughed and when that ended the space between them seemed to hum peaceably.

"So," Dean said with a look down, "you need anything else?"

"No, thank you, Dean. I can unpack on my own."

"Cool." The other man nodded, "I'll get back to work then. See you around, Castiel."

 

And so it followed that for the next few weeks Dean saw a lot of Castiel but they didn't speak again. Almost daily the two would manage eye contact though the window, even a shy smile and wave. Castiel got very red sometimes. Dean tried to play it cool. He kept himself busy as best he could, and it wasn't too hard since he actually had business. Just a deer head and a poodle, but work nonetheless.

Castiel seemed busy too. The townspeople took well to Angel Food Cakes and there was almost always a line. Dean tried not to think too much about Castiel. He didn't do relationships. He did sex, one-night stands, and you couldn't do that in a town like this, and certainly not with someone like Castiel. It was far, far better to admire a work of art at a distance than to touch it, and ruin it.

It was a full two weeks after he first spoke to Castiel that he came upon an opportunity too good to miss. Funnily enough it started with a failure. A woman from out of town had come in asking him to stuff an owl. He was glad he collected the down payment because almost as soon as she'd taken the bird to him she changed her mind.

"I think I'll just let Charlie go." She had said, with a wistful half-peace in her voice.

Dean was left with a dead owl and a $20 down payment. It seemed a shame to let the beast go. Pets like Charlie oughtn't to be let go, not if they were really loved. People who loved things didn't just stick them in the ground and forget about them. It was a shame, and work was slow and it occurred to him that this might just be the way to woo Castiel.

It took him another week of on and off work to finish stuffing Charlie. He took the base form up to his apartment above the store and watched the light in Castiel's bedroom glimmer from behind his curtains. He felt like Gatsby watching the little green light at the end of the pier. He stitched his feelings into the bird, all his attraction, all this longing.

When it was done it was perfect, and there was a part of Dean that was an egotist and wanted to give it to Castiel face to face, and beam over it, and watch the other man's reaction. But Miamonides said, there is no greater level of charity than giving anonymously. So he decided to leave it on Castiel's doorstep. Besides, there was no other taxidermist in town, so it wasn't like the credit would be misplaced.

He rose early Sunday morning to deliver his gift before Castiel opened up shop. Charlie the owl looked so lifelike he could've taken flight there and then. This is how dead things ought to be, Dean thought, as he laid the bird gently on top step of the bakery, beautiful. People made death disgusting, even frightening, but it didn't have to be. There was beauty in death, and something about Castiel made Dean think he could see it too.

He didn't watch to see what Castiel would do when he found it. Angel Food Cakes opened as usual but Dean didn't watch the customers come and go like he usually did. Part of him was afraid. What if he was wrong about Castiel? What if he didn't like Dean's gift, what if he threw it away or worse, brought it back? For all his assurance while he was making it, he was suddenly, terribly, unsure. His afternoon was spent in mental anguish, waiting for closure.

It came in the form of Castiel, around five. He didn't knock, or ring the doorbell. Dean wouldn't have known it was him at all but then it couldn't have been anyone else. He was sprawled on the couch, trying to distract himself with Doctor Sexy reruns, when he heard a rustling outside. He nearly fell on the floor trying to get to the door.

There was no one outside when he got there. Damn the man was fast. He half expected to find the owl on his door step, but what was there sent his mood swinging in quite the opposite direction. Sitting neatly on his top step, swaddled in a checked dishcloth, was an apple pie, baked to perfection, and on top of it, a folded slip of paper. Dean took the pie and the paper inside before he looked long at either.

The pie was delicious and the slip of paper was a phone number.

He waited a full two days to call his neighbor. He didn't want to seem desperate. He might have waited longer but it was pouring all day and the sound of rain against his windows was driving him crazy.

He dialed and tried to sound as natural as he could.

"Hello?" The gruff voice answered.

"Hey, it's, um, it's Dean."

"Hello!" His tone brightened a little at that. "You finally called, I was beginning to think you wouldn't."

"Just playing hard to get." Dean's nerves were being replaced by a sort of unnatural calm. "What's up?"

"I'm driving right now. Back from one of my suppliers' farms. Those apples in the pie, how were they?"

"Amazing!"

"Then those are the ones I'll order from now on. They're from the Angelhardt Orchards. I'm driving back from there now."

Dean had heard of Angelhardt Orchards. He'd stuffed and mounted a deer head for it's owner, Mr. Angelhardt. "That's great!" He said.

"Yes. I'm glad you finally called, Dean, but it's raining very hard out here, and these back roads are very narrow. It's probably not safe to be on the phone."

"Right, yeah, just one more thing, when you get back, you wanna get dinner or something?"

"Yes! I'd love to!" Dean imagined Castiel smiling that awkward but endearing smile as he said that.

"Great! What time?"

Castiel thought for a moment, "I should be back by sev-wha-" he was cut off by a loud crash, like the word was ending, and the phone went all static-y.

"Castiel," Dean cried, to no avail. "Castiel? Cas? Please, answer me!" There was nothing.

Dean threw on his jacket and sprinted to the car. He drove faster than he ever drove before, breaking the speed limit twice over. Maybe Castiel was okay, but if he wasn't there was on one on those back roads to call an ambulance. He was going so fast the rain went sideways across his window.

It didn't really take long to get to the Angelhardt Orchards. He knew the way from driving there and back with the hunting trophy, measuring the walls of the big house to see where the thing would fit.

Something caught his eye. Through the rain something shine red in his headlights. Castiel's little red car was crumpled against a tree. Dean practically flew out of his car. Though the wreck was the first thing the saw, the second was far more jarring. A few feet away from the car, as if it had been thrown through the window, was a crumpled figure, face down in the mud. When Dean came closer he saw it was much worse than that. Castiel was cut everywhere by broken glass, his neck was broken badly, grotesquely, and one of his legs was gashed to the bone.

"Castiel," Dean gasped, falling to his knees beside the other man and turning him over. He was dead, Dean was too late. "Shit!" He whispered, "Shit shit shit!"

But even as he poured over the battered and bloodied figure, another thought crept in through the back door of his mind. Death didn't have to be ugly. It didn't have to be sad. And someone as good, and as handsome as Castiel should never be let go so easily. There was one thing he could still do for the man.


	2. Chapter 2

            The first thing Dean did when he got back was wash Castiel. He carried the body up the stairs and into his shop as surreptitiously as he could.  It was hard because Castiel was heavier in death than he had ever looked in life.  He was ungainly and, it seemed, less than solid after the accident.  But thankfully, miraculously, nobody saw.  He bore Castiel through the door and up the stairs to his apartments. He couldn’t wash him in the tub in his workroom.  It would be wrong to treat Castiel, perfect Castiel, like an animal.  He carried him up to his own bathroom, and propped him up against the wall to undress him while the tub filled with cold water.

            The man’s clothes were a mess of blood and mud.  Dean would throw them away.  Castiel deserved better.  He resolved to break into the bakery the next day and find some of his other clothes.

            He started with the shirt.  It was once white but now so bloodstained it was almost entirely red-brown. Dean unbuttoned it slowly, tenderly, as he could, and slid it off Castiel’s broad shoulders. The thin undershirt beneath was shredded in many places, as was the flesh below.  Already Dean could tell that Castiel would be hard work. No amount of makeup could cover the mess of road rash that marred the skin from his collarbone to the base of his ribs.  But it would be worth it. It would be better this way, much better than letting them bury him.

            He cut the under shirt open with his Swiss army knife and peeled the ruined fabric back from the bloody skin.  Castiel’s chest was leanly muscled and perfectly firm, a runner’s chest. Dean’s breath caught in his throat. He allowed himself a caress, ran his fingers over the pale skin of Castiel’s abdomen.  He stopped himself after a moment.  There would be a time for that.  Now though, time was of the essence.  Death, like love, was a perishable good.  Wait too long and things spoil.  He only had one chance to save Castiel and he wouldn’t waist it. He couldn’t.

            So back to undressing him.  Under his torn and muddy jeans, Castiel wore a pair of lose white boxers. The breath caught in his throat as he began to work them down.  First a stretch of perfect hips, then a trail of dark hair.  Slowly, agonizingly, he pulled off the soiled boxers and tossed them away.  Castiel sat slumped before him, naked and bloody and perfect. 

            The bath was full.  With a little effort he lifted the other man into the chill water.  He thumped in with a splash and little tendrils of blood began to unfurl themselves almost immediately.  Dean wet a cloth and began to scrub away the caked blood in earnest. He scrubbed Castiel’s chest first, then moved down slowly to his hips, then the mess that coated his inner thighs.  Death was a messy business but it was nothing Dean couldn’t handle.   He was gentle as he cleaned Castiel’s cock, as if there was still feeling in the dead member. His breath was stilted as he carefully worked away the filth.  He tried to ignore the itching of his own groin.

            Then, his face.  In some ways that was harder. Dean missed the awkward smile, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners.  There were some things that couldn’t be recreated with stitches and stuffing. The road rash on his check was worse than Dean had thought, and Castiel looked a mess even when the excess blood was scrubbed away.  In a back corner of his mind Dean wondered if he had killed Castiel, but that thought was drowned as he wet his hands and began to wash Castiel’s hair.

            He remembered when he was young and he used to bathe his little brother like this; wetting his hands and rubbing shampoo through his hair from scalp to tips. Of course, Sammy was a more active participant than Castiel was.  And he was never this dirty.  Sam had always been a clean kid, preferring reading to playing in the dirt. Castiel’s hair was a matted mess. Blood and dirt streamed in rivulets down the man’s face as Dean freed the filth from his thick, dark hair.

            “There we go,” he whispered softly as he dunked Castiel’s head under the water to rinse out the shampoo.  “Perfect.”

            Clean, he looked even better.  His eyes were closed, his mouth slack and half open, his wet hair clung to his forehead. He looked like an angel. With a finger, Dean wiped away a droplet of water that clung to the tip of Castiel’s nose.  How often had he fantasized about kissing that strong nose when Castiel was alive?  He’d have his chance again, but he had to remind himself for the second time that night that time was of the essence.  Castiel had been dead several hours now and every moment was precious if he was to do his best work.

            Without taking time to dry Castiel Dean lifted him, dripping and naked, out of the tub, not minding the water that soaked his shirt.  He was still far too heavy to carry easily and so Dean was forced to heft him awkwardly over his shoulder as he walked down the stairs to his workroom.

            Now, in his time, Dean had skinned everything from fish to grizzly bears. Of course, there was a discount if the customer skinned the animal themself, but Dean was better practiced at it than most in his trade.  He had, for obvious reasons, never been able to practice skinning a human body. There were so many unknowns, but Dean could not afford to make a mistake with Castiel.

            He laid him face down on his work table, trying not to look too long at the elegant curve of his backside.  His knives were clean and lined up on a white cloth beside him.  He picked one up, a thin, sharp blade that gleamed wickedly in the fluorescent light.

            Dean took a deep breath, and cut. 

            The first incision ran the length of Castiel’s back, from the back of his neck to the base of his spine. The cut was clean and stark against the creamy skin.  Before he went further, Dean had to disconnect himself. 

            A person wasn’t the sum of their parts.  Viscera, and bones, and strips of fat were not what made Castiel. He was a feeling, a shiver down Dean’s spine, a lump in his throat, and that was what Dean was preserving. Not the flesh and broken bones he bared as he went further, working with knife and hands.  He was saving Castiel, it was the next best thing to bringing him back.

            When at last he had separated the skin from the rest and burned what he didn’t need, or want to see, in the furnace, he finally let himself breathe easy. What would soon be Castiel, his Castiel, lay folded on his work table, which was now befouled by watery, dead, blood.  

            Dean worked all night, salting and resalting, scrubbing and draping. In the hours of waiting he did not sleep but sat on a stool, opened up a pack of menthols, and smoked as he drummed his fingers on his knee.

            He had never felt so on edge. There was a chance, an awful chance that this would go wrong, that the skin would be discolored and unforgiving. He couldn’t bear the thought of seeing that abomination, his Castiel, turned into a withered, grotesque mockery. That would be real murder.

            And yet, nearly a full day after he had carried that broken body through the door of his shop, the skin was finally ready and somehow, miraculously, it was fine. Not the color of life, of course, but that he could fix with a little make-up.  He breathed a sigh of perfect relief, now that he knew he could finish putting Castiel back together again.

            The base form was a semi-flexible mannequin.  It wasn’t perfect but no base form ever was.  He simply cut what needed to be cut way with a sculptor’s knife and soon it was ready. 

            Anticipation made his fingers quiver as he worked the skin of the body up over the plastic form.  It was perfect, mind numbingly, heart-wrenchingly perfect. 

            “Oh Cas,” he breathed, unconsciously nicknaming the other man, “oh god. You’re beautiful.”

            He perched on the edge of his stool while he sewed the skin of the head and neck to the rest of the body.  Each stitch made Castiel more real.  He pulled the pieces together like a puzzle.  Then he was done.  He sat back to admire his work and breathed out slowly, self-satisfactorily. 

            The only remaining problem was the eyes.  Nowhere in his store of false eyes did he have ones that could compare to the perfect blue that Castiel’s had been.  But he could order those later. 

            He leaned forward and kissed the other man on his hollow eyelids. He smelled of salt and tanning chemicals, but that, in time, would be fixed.

            “Cas,” he whispered, pressing his hand against he road rash on the other man’s bare chest and kissing him on his cold lips.  “I saved you.  I’ve saved you.”


End file.
